<font size="22">“Can’t **** every day” is what he said
Hello, we don’t even.
Formal French frankly thrown away
Shock. No.
Scenes of SM and secret desires swirl to me
Wave of pleasure, literature of the flesh as well as poetry
All gone with the air of his breath. Breathe. No.

Can’t withdraw the ideas of fantasies
Can’t fight too long against love’s urges
Can’t deny to ignore them sometimes but
Can’t pretend to love him when his pride
As a male is destroyed, because his walking stick
Is askew, I’ve walked my path from California to here
Can’t always shush my fantasies’ atmosphere
I’m upstairs typing away my rage
On the from the start sensitive and ****** page
Wrote a book of poems full of mysteries and furies
Thought he knew it burned, bright.

Lyon, May 4, 2017